Gossip Column

I move slowly yet fast,

By murmur in an ear am cast,

To the blessed I cursed,

To the future am the past,

Tentatively tip toeing I don’t move fast I last.

Like a soft wind I come,

Not alone but with my camp,

A catalyst for the whirl wind I harm,

Leaving a hullabaloo not a hum.

To my non-believers I teach,

Craft I have I’m no witch,

My gospel I preach,

Followers I need each.

I have seen a lot, am old,

All I have heard I wasn’t told,

To rumor mongers am gold,

To victims am cold,

To my columnist am fold,

I get to the papers and get sold,

Not much but to those that need rumors will hold,

 Daily I have new gossips not what I told.

Poets Pen

Dear Mr. President

We are one of this country’s residents

Not foreigners but by birth and we have evidence

Deeply concerned about the current incidents

 As patriots we have been put in the darkness

Hoping only for the light incidence

Hunger looms

MP's are like loons

All dressed like grooms

In the dark without moon

Angels turn to goons

For change there is room

Grand coalition

A name mistaken for grand collusion

Formed by grand collision

In the name of grand visions

You think we don’t know your missions

We are the revolution

We will charge them with treason

A lot of enquiries

Land enquiry

Goldenberg enquiry

Post-election enquiry

Anglo leasing enquiry

Next might be toilets enquiry

Mining money from Kenyans

We are no quarry, that’s our query

We dream for a developed Kenya

A land of milk and honey

One Kenya for all with or without money

With honest   leaders not murky

A country we would all call mummy

Poets write whether

To change the bad weather

Bringing people together

Like birds of the same feather

To mend our torn leather

We ask for our rights

A democratic state Kenya is

Poetic letters we will continue to write

Until the end of words

Truth we write

If no reply we keep writing till our pens are loud.

Paupers House

The doormat says welcome,

The door is never closed,

With strength it’s never forced,

Flower garden surrounds,

The harvest is in plenty,

Because no flower is eaten.

The room is full of life’s,

Roaches and rats have wives,

All sharing the hive,

The spoon, plate, fork and a knife,

For that is their dive.

The walls tremble when the wind blows,

As it is built so,

Too bright is the room for,

It is thought it was built near the sun soar,

When the rains falls, oh

 It creeps in slow,
  And hits the earthed ground low.

Cha Cha Cha

The sun glows red,

It’s time for it to rest,

The skin that basked in the sun ready,

It was time to put it to test.

All gathered excited about the night,

Knew everything was right,

It was in a dim light,

Never could one lose sight.

The skin vibrated violently vigorously,

The orchestra and band chanted rigorously,

All to the local vocal songs,

It felt nice because it was long.

She shook her hips cha cha cha,

One would think it was chakacha,

A boneless body to dance kwasa kwasa,

Which her body said sawa sawa.

All her competitors mouth agape,

In record we would tape,

A new dancer with a step,

To us she was a queen to ape.

A Girls Dream

“Last year today he had raped me,

Now my bundle of joy is just three months old,

Happy for him but inside am cold,

Before the act I was a girl made of gold,

Listening to this big army man of the story untold,

With his experience now I know why only few are told.

I was a village girl with dreams,

In love with men who would do the extremes,

Moving into their poetic words streams,

But this one was the devil in disguise,

With his “love” I got baptized,

Drowned in it now am traumatized.

 I held to the promise that I’d do this after marriage,

He kept on insisting that I’m a coward, I should have courage,

He used my love for him as leverage,

I’d do it but I had to keep the heritage,

Impatience made him drug my beverage,

Took advantage and wished I had a miscarriage.”

I write this story as the son to this beast,

My sun rises from the west not east,

My heart is clouded by mist,

Tired of always cutting my wrist,

To let this story be heard at least.

Ole Lenku

One of our Cabinet Secretary,

Leading the “best” of the police & military,

Envisaged to end the Alshabab mercenary.

Languishing with work that has been done by the legendary,

Ending up with ideas that have proved to be unnecessary,

Not forgetting the Tint in his vocabulary,

Kenyans hope your job is temporary,

Uneven combination with his friend from the seminary.

Silly

As wine flowed into her mouth,
So were the tears on her cheeks,
With each sip her tears dried,
At least it made a happy lie.

She had done it a second time,
This time she thought she’d not cry,
Maybe if she wouldn’t have tried,
She wouldn’t have gotten to a series of murder.

This would have been her second born,
The man she loves didn’t want the first one,
So she choose her happiness to please him,
She’d forever be treated like a door mat.

Ignorant she’d say he loves her,
Maybe after a while he’d want a good one,
At least one that they both planned for,
Pity her judgement was poor.

A day ago before her todays drink,
She was pregnant and happy he wanted this one,
On telling the good news,
That’s when he got to beat her as an excuse.

It started with a slap,
Then sweetheart am sorry I didn’t mean to slap you,
Now she’s miscarried,
But he doesn’t seem worried

Hustler

Eyes red like there’s a bonfire from hell,

Not even a blink would consume the flames in his eyes,

His mouth bulges on one side,

Like he has a rugby ball in it,

He keeps on talking while chewing,

All green in there like he is padded with grass,

His shirt is half buttoned,

One could count his ribs,

Maybe a high school kid would learn better bone structure here,

His waist had a black paper bag,

This carried the greens he was chewing,

From his breath you wouldn’t need an Alco-blow,

Already my nose was numb,

His back pocket had this clear liquor,

On taking a sip his face would show a lot of pain,

You could tell it was bitter,

As the matatu is taking off,

The conductor parts away with a coin,

He is back to calling on commuters to fill another matatu,

And another poet to write about him,

He is an epitome of a hustler.